Thee, dear maid, ha'e I offended?
The offence is loving thee:
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever,
Wha for thine wad gladly die?
While the life beats in my bosom,
Thou Shalt mix in ilka thoe:
Turn again, thou lovely maiden,
Ae sweet smile on me bestow.
Not the bee upon the blossom,
In the pride of sunny noon;
Not the little sporting fairy,
All beneath the simmer moon;
Not the poet in the moment
Fancy lightens in his e'e,
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
That thy presence gi'es to me.
The days of my youth.
[John Mitchell.—Here first printed.]
Ah! where are the days of my earliest youth,
When nature was sunshine, enjoyment, and truth?
When the journey of life seem'd a pathway of flowers.
And hope wreath'd with roses my days and my hours,
Ah! where are the days of my youth?
Then friendship stood forth unsuspicious and free
As the wind when it sweeps o'er the fathomless sea,
From whose smile rose the joys that were sure to impart
A gush of unmingled delight o'er the heart.
Ah! where are the days of my youth?
Then love lent her charms to enliven the grove,
And breath'd the delights that exist but in love;
The flowers that I turn'd in my chaplet were fair,
For time had not then stain'd my forehead with care,
Ah! where are the days of my youth?
Ah! youth in the vortex of passion's wild flow,
Reflect on the years that come laden with woe,
And 'mid thy gay transports keep this in thine eye,
The years are at hand when thou'lt sing with a sigh,
Ah! where are the days of my youth?
Blythe ha'e I been.
[Tune, "Liggeram Cosh."—"'Blythe ha'e I been on yon hill,' is one of the finest songs I ever made in my life; and besides, it is composed on a young lady positively the most beautiful, lovely, woman in the world."—Burns. The lady in question was Miss Lesley Baillie, doubtless a very pretty girl; but the Poet was surely "in a creel" when he pronounced this to be one of the finest songs he ever made.]
Blythe ha'e I been on yon hill,
As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free,
As the breeze flew o'er me:
Now nae longer sport and play
Mirth or sang can please me,
Lesley is sae fair and coy.
Care and anguish seize me.
Heavy, heavy, is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r,
Sighing, dimnb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws.
In my bosom swelling;
Underneath the grass-green sod,
Soon maun be my dwelling.
What can a young lassie.
[There is an old song, the burthen of which is the same as the opening of the present,—"What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?" From this Burns took the hint, and furnished the following expressive ditty for Johnson's Museum in 1790. The tune is very old.]
What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?
Bad luck to the pennie that tempted my minnie,
To sell her poor Jenny for siller and lan'!
He's always compleenin frae mornin' to e'enin',
He hosts and he hirples the wearie day lang;
He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen,
O, drearie's the night wi' a crazy auld man!
